


The Obscurial

by Amaru_Katari



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Don't Judge Me, It makes sense, Muggle Lily Evans, Obscurial AU, Obscurial Severus Snape, Obscurials (Harry Potter), Obscurus (Harry Potter), The Author Regrets Everything, in my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2018-12-11 11:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11713575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amaru_Katari/pseuds/Amaru_Katari
Summary: In which life is very different because Lily Evans was never a witch.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe I'm grasping at straws, but that Harry Potter could become an Obscurial (shitty life and all), never made much sense (to me). I have my own headcanon regarding that in my [tumblr](https://awesome-scorpion-snake.tumblr.com/post/163774740943/obscurial-headcanons) , but, as I said, is my headcanon, and I might be wrong.
> 
> Anyway, I wanted to write this because the idea wouldn't leave me.

He had always known he was a wizard; his mother had told him as much ever since he could remember, and it seemed, to him, that it was a little useless, but there was no way he would tell his mum that, because she was way too proud on that fact (“ _we are of a pure line, Severus, magic has run on our family since before the time of the Founders”)_ , even if his father was a little too fond of manhandling them both for their _marvelous_ gift.

If anyone asked him, and nobody ever did, magic was nothing more than a nuisance that he was born with, just like the oily hair he had inherited from his mother, or the crooked nose he had gotten from his father. _Magic_ meant broken windows and the sofa catching on fire when he was upset and his father punches when that happened, _Magic_ meant his mother crying because their ( _his_ ) unnaturalness had driven her husband to drinking.

As such, and by the time he was six, with all the wisdom that such an age entailed, he had decided that _Magic_ , that wild, dangerous thing that did not respond to his will, was not worth the effort, and that his best shot at a normal, pain-free existence was to try to become a muggle.

And try he did.

It was difficult, one half of the time it felt like having a spring in his hand that he was compressing until he was afraid that if he let it go it would hit him in the face, and the other half it felt like having a very angry cat in his arms that was doing its very best to pluck his eyes with its claws.

There were times when he slipped, and compelled his magic to do his bidding (failing, usually), like when he tried to keep a redheaded girl from falling too hard when she jumped from the swings in the nearby park, and just managed to elevate her a little bit before she crashed into the ground with a loud crack. It was then, hidden in the bushes, with his hands on his ears but still hearing the cries of the girl and the screams of her blonde sister, that he decided that he preferred the enraged cat.

It was somewhat of a surprise when two years later, during the year in which he was supposed to get his Hogwarts Letter, nothing happened.

His mother was upset, his father puffed his chest and patted his back (watching him with something akin to pride), and he was so relieved that he felt like he was floating above the ground for the next few days.

He went to High School and focused into his studies, trying to not be noticed, divided between evading Evans, the redheaded girl whom he had tried and failed to help in the swings, and who sometimes tried to talk with him without knowing that he was part of the reason that she had a subtle limp and more orthopedic surgeries than an old woman, and keeping tabs on the angry monster that had become of his magic.

He was often tired, more than he though was normal, but he couldn’t deny that things had gotten better; with his father, there were no more beatings and more memorable moments, and his mother had grudgingly agreed with him in that it was better this way, even when she was so sure that he would be accepted in her old school because ‘ _you were so powerful, I don’t understand’_.

Nonetheless, a few more hours of sleep, a long walk near the river, even eating a bar of chocolate helped to tame the monster in him. Like a wild animal, it responded to his feelings, and by the time he was finishing school, just limited itself to growl a little when he was angry, like an old lion who only wanted to sleep. With very few friends (he had succumbed to Evans’ insistence at one point when they were fifteen, and she had dragged him to her own social circle), and almost invisible to his whole class, his school years where quiet and he was -dare he say it- happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another headcanon of mine is that when you become a Obscurial, your magic becomes its own entity (more or less); it's still dependent on you, but is not entirely human anymore, and, because of that, is not recognized by whatever magic is the one who makes Hogwarts' letters, or whatever method is used for Ilvermorny. And that's why I think Credence survived his eleventh birthday.
> 
> I one not-so-curious note, I always felt identified with Severus. But then I was diagnosed with three different (and related) medical conditions that were the causes for those "similarities".


	2. Chapter 2

The sky, without even a single cloud, was blue and bright the summer morning he went to his job in an old bookstore a few blocks from Lily’s house. Calm and quiet, it was a perfect place for him, and it allowed him to study for College while perusing whatever book called his attention. It was hot outside, and there was little to do that day, so he was told to move some boxes and come back to move even more the next day by the old woman who ran the place.

Dismissing the idea of passing by the Evans’ home, he went directly through the park, jumping over obstacles (a rock, a bench, Mrs. Galbraith’s dog) in as much in a direct line towards his house as he could.

His father saluted him from where he was seated, perched in the tiny couch in their even tinier living room watching a football game, and, after being dutifully invited to see the match and politely declining, he went to help his mother with dinner. She had never gotten the hang of cooking the muggle way, or any other way, so she received him with a smile and a pan of overcooked beans, and they joked around about what they could do with bean puree for a while.

There was never a decision made, because there was a crash from the entrance and his father’s cursing was interrupted by an “ _Avada Kedavra”_ and, suddenly, his mother was grasping his arm with more force than he though she had, frantically whispering under her breath a long litany of spells and pleas. Without her wand, that was, as always, on her bedside table, it was a wasted effort.

She had tears running down her cheeks by the time the first cloaked figure crossed the umbral of the kitchen, and he tried to put himself in front of her, but one of the strangers pointed at him with his wand, paralyzed him with a simple word, and levitated him with another. His mother suffered the same fate, and both were escorted to the cramped living room, in which they were received by a woman, a corpse, and a thing that looked not entirely human.

 _‘Magic is truly a nuisance’_ he though faintly, heart hammering an irregular tempo in his chest, while looking at the wide, empty eyes of his father.

The Thing, a strange hybrid between man and snake, called himself a _Lord_ , accused his mother of treason against the Wizarding World and of contaminating the world with squibs, and declared himself judge and executor of their supposed crimes with a dramatic speech that would make a politician jealous.

“You must be grateful,” the so-called Lord said, red eyes narrowing while looking at his wand attentively, as if looking for blemishes in the pale wood, “you are necessary to send my message. The fools that oppose me have to see, to _understand_ , that this kind of betrayal towards magic is unforgivable, and leads only to death” a pause, and the man sighed, as if resigned. “The muggles, however, will only see a young man who went mad, killed his parents, and then committed suicide. A tragedy, I am sure.”

The woman giggled childishly, and the monster inside of him, fueled by his fear and rage, started to coil inside his chest, wanting to break his defenses, getting ready to strike. Wordlessly he was put on his feet, and, before he could do anything, there was another spell being shot at him.

“ _Imperio”_

Suddenly, nothing mattered; the impotence, the anger, the all-consuming fear, everything, was replaced with a wonderful feeling of happiness. Even the monster stopped its attempts at freeing itself, confused by the sudden change.

‘ _Kill her’_ whispered a voice in his head ‘ _rip her apart’,_ and he wanted to hear the voice, _needed_ to, but there was something wrong. Why would he kill someone? Anyone? Hadn’t he spent the last decade and a half keeping his very destructive magic burning under his skin for that same reason?

 _‘Do it! Grab a knife and stab her!’_ the voice pressed, and the manic insistence in it made the happiness recede.

 _‘No’_ he thought, fighting the darkness that started to cloud his eyes, not sure if he was talking to the voice or to the monster, who was ramming against every barrier he had put over the years.

“What…?” and that was the woman, who looked (scared? Confused?) between the Lord and him, while the other two cloaked men retreated as much as the limited space in the room allowed them.

And the darkness kept growing, blurring the edges of his vision and mushing his thoughts with a heavy fog of confusion. He wanted to shake himself, to see if his hands where trembling or if the instability he felt was only in his head.

His mouth moved on its own.

“I said _no_ ”

And the world faded to black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to recognize that I almost forgot about this. In my defense, I got a wee bit sick, and my memory problems are upping their game, and I now have difficulties remembering how the hell look people from my family. Fun times.
> 
> I wrote an extra chapter, mostly because the comment from GingerPeeble (Thank you!) made me think that my third chapter was a little too short.

 

 

He woke up to his mother crying over him ( _‘Oh, gods, why?’_ ), asking for forgiveness for something or the other, and asking him to look at her, but she had him pressed to her chest so he limited himself to groan a little in protest when air became essential.

Unusually tired, he felt as if dreaming, his thoughts moving through molasses, his body heavy and unresponsive, and his head thumped with a stabbing pain that started in the base of his skull and ended with a numbing ache behind his eyes. Little made sense, but he was in no shape to question anything.

His mother made him stand and directed him to the kitchen, away from the destruction and bodies in their living room, and seated him in a chair, acting as if he was delicate china. He saw her go for the phone, and watched his hands with distant interest as she tried to mark a number in the dial with trembling fingers.

He was strangely calm, with an aloof knowledge that the last hour had been anything but normal, and idly asked himself if he was in trouble.

The brain fog was still there when the police arrived, but the muggles were soon ushered by Aurors wearing ill-fitting muggle clothes, waving their wands without a care, talking excitedly between themselves after quickly identifying and moving the bodies. They took his mother back to the living room, asking for details, maybe thinking him too shocked to speak or too non-magical to understand what happened (or both), and he barely heard her tell them a stuttered tale of out-of-control magic and of things that, she had though, were not possible in their time, in their country, in _her_ house _,_ with _her child_.

One of the aurors, a man his age with glasses and untidy black hair who had poked his head trough the kitchen door and was watching him with badly disguised curiosity, was ordered by the apparent leader of the group to make himself useful and to “take Mrs. Snape to the healer”, and the man left, almost bumping into a wall in his haste, and it was oh so very weird thinking that _wizards_ were not only his mother and himself, but that there was a whole community of them. That they ( _him_ ) were the dysfunctional ones.

Closing his eyes tiredly (the annoying pain behind his eyes was migrating to his jaw), he tried to gauge the situation. He was almost sure that, in any moment, there would be some kind of executor (he imagined something out of medieval images of the Black Death Plague) swinging an axe, coming for his head, and tried to figure out if he would put a fight if that happens. If he _could_ put a fight.

It was a somewhat disheartening situation.

As it was, he was surprised with the old man who came an hour or so after the Aurors, all white beard, blue eyes and magenta robes, looking the image of a children’s book Merlin as he waltzed towards him. The young Auror from before followed, doing a good impression of an overeager little child who wanted to show off something to his father (‘ _idiot’_ he thought uncharitably)

“Thank you, James. I would like to talk with Mr. Snape. If you will…” the order, because it couldn’t be anything else, even when it sounded as a suggestion, had ‘James’ scrambling outside the kitchen with a hasty “yes Professor-sir… eh… Albus”

Albus (‘ _such a weird name, right, Severus?’_ ) gave him a smile, as if seeing him was nothing short of a marvelous happenstance between old friends, and hummed before summoning out of nowhere, and with a most likely unnecessary flourish, the most horrible cold pack he had ever seen. The old wizard handed him the thing (it was buttery yellow and had purple flowers and green dots _everywhere_ ) and waited, still smiling, until he grabbed it.

“Someone once told me that their head hurt when something like this happened” the man simply explained, and pulled out a chair to sit down beside him.

He hummed noncommittally, feeling empty, even if he could feel the anxiety clinging to his limbs and the tingling in his fingers, and tried to dismiss those all-knowing blue eyes by looking at the garish ice pack and assessing where to put it. In the end, it went to the base of his skull, where the headache started. They spend the next minutes in silence, Severus occasionally moving the always-cold ice pack from his nape to his eyes, and then the sides of his head, and the wizard occupied himself looking around the small kitchen, and rolling his thumbs.

“Well” sighed the old man after a while, crossing his fingers over his lap, still with that affable façade, when Severus finally put the ice pack back on his nape “I have heard many things today, all of them incredible in one way or another, but I would like to know what happened. From you”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really a fan of Albus Dumbledore. I think that he fancied himself too much of a Merlin, and put Harry as his personal Arthur (whom he could direct towards a designated Guinevere), but I really think that he had good intentions. But you know what they say about those. 
> 
> Anyway, a friendly reminder that author is not a native speaker, and that I will thank you if you signal any typos.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... finally. I'm sorry for the unexpected hiatus (?). 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

In some ways, Credence Barebone thought he had got a good deal in life. True, he couldn’t access most of the magic he was born with, but neither was he susceptible to sudden bouts of magical storming, as Newt had once charmingly called it, and he had left New York without condemnation, but without Charity, or a name, or anything to call his own, except for the clothes on his back and a few friends, even if it took him years to call them that.

“Everything that deserves it takes some time” had said Queenie once, and while it had nothing to do with the drama that was his life in his early-twenties, but with the brownie she was patiently trying to teach him to make (and that he insisted was ready ten minutes early), he had taken to heart the counsel, and applied it when he was able.

Fifty years after that, and he had a job, a family, and there were days (entire days!) in which he could talk without stuttering at all. Queenie’s worth as an accidental counselor was more than commendable.

But, above all, it was a conjoined effort between Newt, who was a mother hen when he put his mind on it, and Albus Dumbledore, who had done his best to assure that Credence (even if that wasn’t his name anymore) had another chance to be himself, without being burdened by the shadows of his past.

Sometimes, even, he got to help others with their own shadows.

Mr. Dumbledore ( _‘Call me Albus’)_ sometimes appeared in his shop in Diagon Alley with little frightened children, whom may or may not speak English (there was once a little boy who only knew a particular dialect of Xinca), and that he housed or helped until they got a more permanent home.

It was a rare occurrence, fortunately, and Dumbledore usually came for tea and talk about books, the news, the school’s kids, Credence’s kids, and, lately, Credence’s grandkids.

That summer, Dumbledore came into his shop followed closely by quite the strange sight: an adult. A pretty young one at that, but an adult nonetheless. Usually, the professor brought children -or Newt- with him, not unknown, uncomfortable-looking adults dressed in transfigured robes.

“Albus!” he called from behind the counter “is good to see you”

“Dear boy” here the young man behind the old wizard grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'boy, he says' “I share the sentiment” and then, because Albus Dumbledore is nothing but peculiar, caught in a quick move the arm of the dark haired man and pulled him in front of him, as if he was showing his youngest child to an old aunt “I wanted to exploit your particular expertise in a little problem of ours” the young man reddened and looked, if possible, more uncomfortable when Albus patted his shoulders “Cormoran, I wanted you to meet Severus Snape. Severus, this is Cormoran Ellacot, the friend I told you about”

“G-good morning sir” stammered Severus, apparently too aware of Credence's eyes on him and redder by the second.

Credence blinked and hummed, just catching up with all the facts presented to him, and managed just barely to not poke the kid in curiosity, because - _really_ \- this Severus Snape looked as glum and nervous as he used to when at his age.

And was “dark like a damn tunnel” normal for an eye color amongst adult Obscuri?

Because the children they had found always had colorful eyes. Pained, full of fear of themselves and the world, but colorful nonetheless. Even the child from Guatemala had had clear blue eyes, like the sky, and Newt had said that the Sudanese girl had light brown eyes, just the color of a healthy Bowtruckle.

Weird.

Anyway, he thought while directing them towards the room behind his counter, he would offer his help, and most likely Albus already had a plan forming for the young man who was trying to not look overly curious at the books on the shelves.

He would make tea, and then they would get a solution, like Newt did for him and he had done for many others.

All would be well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xinca are a group of indigenous people from Guatemala (the child from Guatemala was the same poor kid who only knew Xinca). Regarding the eye color, I once met an Inga guy who had the bluest eyes ever, and he was the inspiration for the child. The Inga are an indigenous group from southern Colombia (where I am from) and, as you can guess, his blue eyes were very striking, even for the non-indigenous population. 
> 
> They -the Ingas- had been discriminated against (until the seventies, the catholic priests in the rural areas where they lived would teach that the Ingas didn't have a soul) but they still have strong ties with their traditions, and you can still talk with them about the magic bound to the earth (the Pacha mama: the Mother Earth) and in their rituals. It's very inspiring, and I am ashamed to say that even if I am from Inga ascendence, everything I know comes from friends.
> 
> I didn't use them for the story because I didn't thought that knowing how much of a close-knit group they are, and how very prideful of their own traditions they are, they would get and obscurial. More so because their leaders (Taitas) still choose children to teach them their traditions and knwoledge of nature, life, society and magic.
> 
> So I choose a random almost extint group to replace them. Sorry for that.
> 
> And... Well, I changed Credence's name, mostly because I thought that he would get a new name to scape New York. I was reading the Cuckoo's Calling, and yes, I blended together Cormoran Strike's and Robin Ellacott's names. Because I shipped them together. That's why. I'm a simple woman.

**Author's Note:**

> My native lenguaje is not English, so if you notice any typos, please, let me know.


End file.
